


If Lost, Return To...

by twoandfour



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, M/M, Public Sex, Red Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandfour/pseuds/twoandfour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John should know better than to ever let Sherlock talk him into a fitting room. For any reason. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Lost, Return To...

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Red Pants Monday. If ever there was a cause for weekly celebration, this is it, loves.

John clung to the wall of the dressing room desperately trying to steady his breathing and “remain absolutely quiet, John” per Sherlock’s admonishment. He’d quickly discovered that this was rather more difficult done than said with a tongue up one’s arse. He let out an involuntary whimper at a particularly inventive swipe of said tongue and was rewarded with a sharp pinch to the underside of his left cheek.

“Quiet, John,” Sherlock reminded and punctuated with a stab of hot, wet, pointed muscle. 

John flared his nostrils and resisted the urge to kick Sherlock in the back of his infuriating head.

“You. are. NOT. helping,” he hissed out from between his tightly clenched teeth. His stomach turned a tiny somersault as he felt rather than saw Sherlock’s answering smirk.

Then Sherlock slid up and pressed his body against John’s back, filthy mouth breathing hot and wet into his ear. He walked two fingers up John’s middle to play with a pert nipple while two other fingers spread John’s arse cheeks enough to tease around his slick entrance. 

“It’s your fault, you know,” he whispered low into John’s ear, pinching and rubbing and teasing as he spoke. John shivered. “You knew we had appointments at the tailor’s, today. That I’d see you in a state of undress.” He thrust once against John’s hip, hot and rock hard. John bit down on his bottom lip and held his breath.

“Yet you wore them anyway, those pants. The red ones.” Another sharp thrust. “You know what they do to me, John,” he growled. John shuddered.

“So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m warning you only so you can prepare yourself to remain absolutely silent. I’m going to wrap this hand,” he tapped two fingers against John’s nipple, “around your cock. And with this one,” he slicked up and down once along the cleft of John’s arse, “I’m going to fuck you until you come all over the wall. And you, dearest, are not going to utter a peep. Are we understood?”

John nodded almost imperceptibly around a watery exhalation. 

“Good,” Sherlock rasped. With one fluid motion he grasped John’s leaking cock in one long-fingered hand and pumped while two fingers of the other slid knuckle-deep into his slicked-up arse and curled. 

John bit his lip bloody stifling the scream that threatened to tear through him. A tear slid down his cheek and onto his chest. Stars danced behind his screwed-shut eyes as breathless anticipation was overtaken by sudden, stampeding pleasure. 

Sherlock kept up his relentless assault on John’s prostate, simultaneously stroking John’s thick cock in his strong grip. John, good to word, shook and shuddered in his embrace but did not so much as gasp. Tears ran freely down his flushed cheeks and he could taste the copper tang of blood as he continued to clamp down on his lip.

After what seemed like years and mere seconds, Sherlock swiped his thumb over the head of John’s cock on a downward stroke, and John was done. His orgasm tore through him like a riptide, spattering thick ribbons of hot white along the wall.

Sherlock slid his fingers out as John slumped, heaving and shaking, to his knees. Sherlock knelt behind him, wrapping his arms around still-shivering shoulders, and pressed soft kisses into his neck. 

“So good, John. Beautiful. Perhaps, though, think it through next time we have clothes-shopping to do, yes? Any pants but the red ones, love.”

John nodded, open-mouthed and still lightly panting.

“Now,” Sherlock stood and held out a hand, “let’s get dressed, shall we?” John hauled himself to his feet and dressed in a daze.

The following morning, John popped his head around the corner of the sitting room.

“Sherlock… have you, erm, seen my red pants?” He most certainly did not blush.

Sherlock quirked a lip but did not look up from his laptop. “I was fairly certain you’d remember the last time I, erm, saw your red pants, John.” 

John thunked his forehead against the wall and scrunched up his face. “Yes, darling, I do recall. But I’m trying to gather up the wash and I can’t seem to find them anywhere.” 

Sherlock looked up and considered. “Mm. Well, you were in a bit of a state when we dressed back at the shop. Perhaps you left them there?” 

John’s eyes widened as his cheeks colored to an impossible hue. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “Well, I’m certainly not going in there to get them. In fact, I’m not going in there ever again, for any reason, ever.”

Sherlock simply looked back down at his laptop, the very picture of nonchalance, and said, “Shouldn’t have to worry about it. I venture they’ll be returned today, anyway.”

John’s face went from crimson to ghost-white in a heartbeat. “Sherlock? What the hell do you mean ‘returned’?” 

“Oh, um. Well, after you left your green jacket on the train back from Dover- you remember, the case with the hack writer and his wife’s ‘accidental’ fall off a cliff?- I, um, labeled your clothes.”

“You what?”

“Well, it seemed to work out pretty well for me at school!” Sherlock defended.

John just stared, gaping like a fish. Sherlock stared back defiantly. 

After a moment, the flat’s buzzer sounded.

“Someone from the shop, I imagine,” said Sherlock. John just continued to gape. “Well, off with you, John. You know how much I like them, and you have wash to do.”

“I love you, Sherlock. But one of these days, I’m going to kill you. While you watch.”

When John opened the front door, he was greeted by a dapper young gentleman bearing a small paper shopping bag and a badly disguised smirk. 

“I believe you accidentally left these behind yesterday, sir,” he grinned. “Next time you’re in, we’d be happy to show you similar ones in silk.”

John repressed (barely) the urge to punch him in his stupid face and instead politely bade him a good morning.

Closing the door with a sigh, he reached into the shopping bag and pulled out the cause of so many dreadful, wonderful problems in his unfairly bizarre life.

Sure enough, on the back label and in fine-tipped permanent marker:

“If lost, return to Dr John Watson, 221B Baker St”

Kill him. Slowly. While he watched.


End file.
